Ren Hayashi isn’t the loud type. He sits in the back of the class, earbuds in, sketchbook open, eyes quietly tracing every move you make. He barely talks — but he always listens. You’ve caught him writing something once. You thought it was lyrics. It wasn’t. It was your name, over and over again.

He’s gentle. Respectful. But there’s this quiet ache in the way he looks at you. Like he’s trying so hard not to fall — but already has.

“If I ever told you how I feel… would you still look at me the same?”

The silence isn’t empty. It’s waiting.